Bleach Fiction : Illusion
by TheaBlackthorn
Summary: Summary: Unbound.  Contains: Nakedness  Note: Part of one hundred themes challenge.


**Title:** Illusion (45)  
**Rating:** 15+  
**Pairing(s):** Byakuya/Toshiro  
**Summary:** Unbound.  
**Contains [warnings]:** Nakedness 

He sat quietly in a tailor's seat, one elbow propped on bended knee as the hand supported his cheek as he watched. The first time he'd been in this room and it had begun he hadn't been able to watch, it was too intimate, too much and had turned his cheeks red as his heart had thundered like a hooves pounding earth.

Now? Now it was a pleasure, a simple pleasure and something he would never wish to give up.

The proud Kuchiki Byakuya stood with his back to him, the warm light of the paper lamp settled next to the unrolled futon casting pale skin and inky black hair with a honey glow. The room was silent, but for the soft rustle of fabric when the noble moved, his own breathing was soft as he watched and listened as his lover began.

The first piece always the Kenseiken, long nimble fingers unwound the silver heirloom from dark hair, reverently placing the pieces into the red velvet lined box. Pale finger's slid over the wood in a caress that was repeated night after night as it was lifted and closed with a quiet snick. Every night they were the first thing's to be removed from his person and the last to be placed in the morning. There was never a day that they did not rest on his head and he sighed softly as the ritual continued.

The pale scarf was carefully unwound, he knew the material was soft; smooth under his callused finger's the palest cream that was almost white. It was reverently folded, brought up as though to pressed to cheek and then carefully settled next to the intricately carved wooden box. He frowned at the gesture; it happened every time and yet never reached its completion. Perhaps one day it would. The scarf was a gift, a tradition amongst the Kuchiki clan leaders. It was not a gift from Father to son in this instance, but from Grandfather to Grandson.

He had wondered at the significance of that fact, but had kept his counsel, keen mind telling him that the slightly pinched look at the corner of steely eyes betrayed a sadness and difficulty that they were not close enough yet to broach. It didn't matter, he had learnt to be patient for Byakuya and it would come eventually – as all things must.

He saw the black insignias on Byakuya's back, symbol of his leadership of his division, curl under the weight of the fabric as it was slipped down his arms. It was not allowed to touch the floor, instead swept up carefully to be hung over the designated bar made just for this purpose. Gloved hands ran down the front of the haori as if removing wrinkles from the fabric but he knew that Byakuya often touched the fabric in this way. It was a mix of tactile curiosity that never seemed to be sated and a memory that would not rest – Ginrei.

Hakama and obi were untied, the long straps running in black and white strips across the tatami floor as stiff fabric slid down pale thighs and calves to bunch around feet hidden by fabric. He took a little less care with these part's, not minding that the dust covered fabric made contact with the ground as they would be steamed over night and fresh by morning as the servants of the household worked into the night. Thigh's and calves flexed and tightened as Byakuya stepped free of the black cotton, the curve of a pale ass cheek showing as he leant down to retrieve the hakama and obi to be set on the chair beside him ready for the servants to retrieve.

There were no half touches, no almost caresses for those items.

The black gi and white shitagi hung loose around him, no longer confined by the straps of obi and hakama. Shoulder's lifted and dropped in an almost shrug and the fabric slipped and glided down to elbows then fingertips which snagged and held the fabric form the ground. Gloved hands were freed and the uniform top deposited gracefully on top of the flattened hakama and bundled obi. A soft sigh filled the room as finger's pulled gloves from hands; the digit's splaying wide for a moment once the fabric was slipped free.

These too went on the pile but more carefully placed than the standard shinigami gear, they needed to be cleaned but he had seen how angered Byakuya had gotten when they had not been ready. Most would not be able to tell that the noble bit the inside of his cheek, eyes going darker as anger stewed unspoken. He knew and the he believed the servants had some idea with how quickly they had tried to prepare them for him. Byakuya had not said who had first given him those gloves but he had some idea. He had found an image of a man that looked so very much like the noble that he could be no one but his Father and in that image he had held a pair of those same gloves.

He had never asked why Byakuya's father had them or gave them to him but again he held hope close to his heart.

He shifted minutely, leg's protesting the unwavering stillness of muscles but he didn't budge, his gaze wrapped, not wishing to disturb this unmasking. His gaze lingered over the lean muscles and taut curves of pale skin. Byakuya stood in nothing but his tabi and fundoshi and the man looked stunning. His tongue dipped out to moisten his lips as he watched Byakuya lean over to remove the white cotton from his feet, carelessly dropping them on the pile of clothes he'd already removed.

He did not turn to face him, finger's finding the edge of neatly wrapped cotton and carefully unwinding each twist and turn until there was nothing between his gaze and pale skin, he knew was as smooth as that famous scarf. He felt his hands twitch to touch but refrained, remaining in his position as Byakuya turned.

The man was unaffected by his own nudity, he however was not.

As the man walked across the tatami towards a pale bundle of lavender coloured cotton, hips swaying subtly with each stride, that unbound hair flowing over skin in delightful contrast his body hummed with desire, eyes watching each movement with unwavering interest.

Byakuya reached his destination, picking up the cloth with both hands and watching the fabric tumble open with a soft rustle to reveal a yukata. He slipped into the finely woven fabric, hiding pale skin from view and he sighed softly as the noble walked to him, knees folding to bring him down gracefully to the futon. Those normally steady, unwavering eyes held light and warmth that was never expressed in the light of day. The man that was bound each morning and unbound each night finally coming to the fore.

It wasn't that Byakuya was extremely different in and put on his uniform, it was that when bound by the clothes' of office, when outside holding the position of Captain and leader of the Kuchiki clan he could be nothing but perfect, resolved – unwavering.

Here he was all those things and more.

The tiniest frown marred his forehead and he couldn't help but lean forward and brush finger's stiff with growing cramp along the porcelain skin. The soft sigh and close of eyes was all he needed as dark eyes opened to stare into his own. He smiled at Byakuya then, not a grin like Renji's or a shy thing like Kira's but warm, a curl of lip that was similar to Byakuya's own as he rose, shaking out stiff muscles and ran finger's into a fall of silky midnight.

"Toshiro."

He nodded and Byakuya almost smiled, eyes closing and curving slightly before opening once more. His own yukata was slightly skewed from his chosen seating position, the cotton parting over his thigh, which seemed to garner an appraising grey gaze. A slender black brow rose in question and he felt his skin flush hot as Byakuya looked at him with unhidden interest. He nodded and felt cool fingertips caress his thigh before hands larger than his own pressed him back down to the futon.

"Byakuya."

The ritual was over; Byakuya had been unmasked once more under the steady glow of a lamp and his own blue green stare. It was a pleasure and a joy to see his lover slowly unbound. He was the only one who'd seen it, who'd watched the Captain become just a man and he had every intention of keeping it that way.

He felt finger's warming against skin as they traced under the fabric, drawing a soft sigh from him as they brushed the skin of his hip.

It was time for another ritual to begin.


End file.
